Chapter 1. A Bad Mood (2)
In the year 2020, humanity was invaded by beings from beyond the far side of space.
Or then again—viewed from a certain angle, the only nations that might have described the act as an "invasion" were the ones we here on Earth liked to call "developed countries."
When the Galaxy Federation's delegates visited Earth and took stock of how the planet actually ran itself, they delivered their verdict to the superpowers nominally dominating it: illegal.
The mid-sized and developing nations dying in the shadows of developed-world wealth, the countries being bled dry in places where even that "development" had never properly arrived—the Federation judged that they were "being abused on a global scale."
It also took note of Earth's ecosystem, groaning under the weight of humanity's destruction of the natural environment.
And that groaning ecosystem, as it happened, included human beings in its count.
To the Federation's eyes, we Earthlings were apparently a species strangling itself toward extinction.
The Galaxy Federation began to act immediately.
You'd think membership in something called a "Galaxy Federation" would be handled planet by planet, but the Federation respected the independence of individual nations. In practice, its structure resembled a rather loose version of the European Union—signing on was done by nation, or by colony, on each member world.
This cosmic-scale superpower extended its invitations starting from the nations that would stand at the very back of the line, were Earth ever sorted "by order of wealth."
The result was ironic: not a single country classified as "developed" joined, while the nations that had been suffering more or less unilaterally became the Federation's first members.
Their pace of development accelerated accordingly—and conspicuously.
The great powers, of course, pushed back. The "expansion policy" the Federation pursued as it extended its influence over Earth was enough to turn the entire history of space development on its head.
A Warp Point connected directly to Federation headquarters opened. A headquarters for visiting civilian delegations was erected. Shipyards for spacecraft serving Earth were built.
The plans of the developed nations—which had until then been consuming sums of money in the truest astronomical sense—were reduced wholesale to wastepaper.
And naturally, watching all of this unfold, the developed nations cried out—
"This is an invasion!"
Christmas evening. Gwanghwamun Plaza.
From a crowd hoarding oversized placards burst a voice you wish you could unhear.
"Isn't this exactly what colonizing this Earth would sound like? Think about it! What happens when they join hands with the North!"
That was an outrageous exaggeration. The Galaxy Federation does manage its image, you know.
They arrived on Earth by loudly branding the developed nations "illegal" in the first place—what would they stand to gain, at this point, by cozying up to dictators?
Naturally, they'd do the groundwork first—'fixing' a country up nice and thoroughly—then bring it into the fold.
They are aliens, after all. For them, that much is probably simple?
In truth, the countries the Federation most wanted to acquire through such methods were precisely those "developed nations" it had excluded from the very start. Alien or not, superpowers cradling nuclear arsenals—and the developed nations huddled around those superpowers—looked terribly dangerous to them.
And apparently, if a careless misstep sent Earth annihilating itself in a war, the cracks would show in the Federation's own prestige.
Following these worldbuilding clichés, the humanity of this world fulfilled the requirements of a "hell-Earth" to perfection—garbage technology, weapons advanced to the point of insanity.
So the Galaxy Federation sidled gingerly around that seizure button, and threatened in a slightly different fashion.
We hold better technology than you. If you refuse to cooperate with us of your own accord, we will make the countries beneath you richer than you are.
......Like that would ever work?
The series I used to read was, at heart, a kind of absurdist gag work—a comic whose worldview bent magical-girl clichés in whatever direction the author pleased.
It would feel wrong not to get lines like "How utterly detestable, these Earthlings...!" out of it.
They're going to remodel the Horn of Africa into a megalopolis-class port city? When they couldn't even finish off the Somali pirates? I have never once understood how a Galaxy Federation warship got captured by Somali pirates charging in on rafts.
The announcement that Earth's religions were misguided and unscientific stepped squarely on the tails of every religious organization on the planet. The Warp Point they'd gone to the trouble of building was being terrorized on a regular schedule by homemade rockets from local insurgents.
They'd installed "peacekeeping forces," so a wholesale massacre was off the table. But they hadn't brought the region any lasting peace, either.
If total strangers barging in uninvited could have sorted the place out within a few years, the United States would have managed it long ago.
...Well.
Anyway. To sum up: North Korea sat somewhat apart from the continent where all that mess was unfolding—and its image was just far, far too villainous.
Then there were the places the Federation had neglected outright, having dawdled too long.
The interplanetary mega-corporations, reaching their hands toward Earth.
You won't release your technology to the developed nations?
So the developed nations made their choice.
In that case, they would buy obsolete technology on the cheap—from the interplanetary mega-corporations.
The Galaxy Federation belatedly attempted to regulate those corporations—and whoops, some of them had already built colossal subsidiaries on Earth. A few had outright relocated their headquarters there.
Under the loose framework of galactic-scale international law, those companies already counted as "Earth-domiciled corporations," and so long as the developed nations they'd settled in refused to join the Federation, regulation was impossible.
Right. And there it is—the reason so many galactic corporations fixed their gaze on this planet with its unremarkable resources, its unimpressive population, and its market crowded out by deep-rooted domestic culture content.
A first-rate tax haven and a money-laundering paradise. In their eyes, a very different kind of gold mine lay spread across this, the third planet of the solar system.
Five years on from all that, 2025 was the setting of the story.
For the record: aside from the "invaded in 2020" line at the very top and the "five years have passed" at the very bottom, none of this lore appeared directly in the webtoon. I'd assembled it over sixteen years of living in this world.
...Presumably, the throwaway lines and one-off gags the webtoon had doled out whenever it needed a quick laugh had simply been stitched together into the history of this world.
"They will steal our land! They will steal our jobs! And in the end, they will steal the very gods we worship! If that is not an invasion, then what is it!"
I ignored the pack of elderly protesters and kept walking hard, a paper bag clutched tight in my hand.
Inside was the OST album for an animated film I'd seen in theaters not long ago. Nothing limited-edition or fancy—just an ordinary disc in a plain plastic CD case.
For this day and age—and for me, with barely any money to spare for hobbies—it might have been a rather extravagant purchase. These days, a small monthly fee buys unlimited streaming.
But... hobbies were never a territory of reason or efficiency in the first place. They belong to the territory of feeling, don't they?
A playlist given physical form, composed and sequenced track by track by the people who made the music. It was the fact that it was a "collection" that got me.
...No matter how suffocating your daily life gets, you need a little healing, don't you?
It's not as if I have a girlfriend, after all. Cut me some slack for wanting to heal with a secondhand turntable I picked up off the street.
Beep-beep-beep.
"Oh, come on."
I glared down at the smartwatch on my left wrist, irritated.
A summons.
I scrunched up my face.
If you're going to call someone in, give them a little more lead time. Thirty minutes? Seriously—thirty. If I'd been at the orphanage, there would have been no making it in time.
And then, on top of this, if I showed up late anyway, the Cadre would raise hell.
Sighing again and again, I picked up my pace.
...Well, it is Christmas, I suppose.
It would feel wrong not to have a battle between an evil organization and the magical girls.
A Galaxy Federation. Interplanetary multinationals.
Those elements, too, had surely begun life as setups "for the laughs."
But here's the thing—settings like those are born carrying elements that cannot help but turn serious in the end.
Third-rate combatants being ground down by a shit-tier black company. That premise, with its strangely realistic undertone, is funny at first glance.
Give one of them a family to feed, a pretty daughter waiting at home, and the irony doubles.
But what happens when the hero on the side of justice starts wailing on those characters, over and over, chapter after chapter?
And what if, one day, a combatant actually dies?
For irony to stay funny, it has to end as a one-off short. Drag it out, stretch it into a serial, and the premise stops being a gag and becomes an episode about a working man's struggle for his basic human dignity.
That was why, after this webtoon—Magical Girl Happy Cherry Blossom—got promoted to official serialization, I had gone back to the original blog and left a comment saying "it was better back then."
And perhaps, too, that was why I had been reborn into this world.
"Whew, kiddo. You showed up again today, hm?"
Astonishingly enough, every last one of Noir Corporation's combatants was a non-regular employee.
Myself included.
And we weren't Earthlings only, either. Once you sealed yourself inside a combat suit, it became impossible to tell who was an Earthling and who was a Prokssuyan from the planet Pragrerossuyan.
For the record, the pleasant-faced middle-aged man in front of me was one of those Prokssuyans. From Earth, his home planet was... hm, just how far away was it again? Anyway—very, very far. He'd immigrated here with his family.
Supposedly this was the only trade he'd ever learned, so he'd followed the company when it moved its headquarters.
"A young one like you—I wonder if it is good, continuing to do this work. Body holding up okay?"
Supposedly he had a daughter about my age; honestly, I couldn't quite picture it. Earthlings were apparently famous enough in the Galaxy Federation that even methods for telling sexes apart or estimating ages had spread around, but to my eyes a Prokssuyan was nothing more than a blue lump of rock with a face.
No mouth. So how did it speak so crisply? Every conversation left me genuinely curious—but asking felt like it would be rude.
Then again, wasn't even that a hopelessly Earth-centric way of thinking? I'd never left the planet myself; out there in that actual cosmos, maybe beings like him were the ones in the majority, and folks like me were the—
"Mister, don't you worry about her! She's a high schooler! A teenager! Earth teenagers are absolutely insane, you know! If anything, she'll probably clock out from a shift like this and head straight home for a date with her boyfriend!"
—though, maybe not?
At least this one looked overwhelmingly human, apart from the blue skin and the two antennae sprouting from her head.
And going by the face alone—honestly a looker. By Earth sensibilities, shaped like a girl. The age bracket looked about like mine, too, but until you heard the full story you couldn't afford to relax. For all anyone knew, she was actually pushing thirty. Or a man.
Or possibly a being from some place where the concept of gender didn't exist at all. Who could say?
Still, one thing this one's words and behavior made perfectly clear: this was a certified Earth-boo.
What's an "Earth-boo," you ask? Simply put: among Koreans there are those so enamored with Japan that living and working there becomes their dream in life; and conversely, Japanese and Westerners sometimes fall head over heels for K-pop. This one had fallen for the culture of "Earth."
Trace the phenomenon back far enough and it reaches a few years before 2020, when the Galaxy Federation's contact began in earnest—but no, let's leave that story for later.
"Hey! What the hell are you idiots doing!? Helmets on, now!"
Ah. The Squad Leader, pitching another fit.
I'd never seen what the Squad Leader looked like. Whenever he turned up on site, the helmet was already on his head, sealed and perfect.
Our combat suits were... how do I put this. Skin-tight. Imagine the costume of your average Japanese tokusatsu mook, topped with a black motorcycle helmet.
The one small mercy was that the women's suits at least had something skirt-shaped at the waist.
The ones without it were presumably the men.
We all scrambled into our helmets, flustered.
Across the eye portion of the helmet, a simple UI appeared. A heads-up display... if you could call it that? A bare number—a percentage—tucked into the corner of my vision. In truth, all it showed was roughly how much energy the Circuit had left to run on.
Beep.
I checked the Circuit strapped to my wrist.
Fifty percent. Yes—this Circuit always started at fifty. On days when my condition was uniquely foul, or something had gone genuinely wrong, I'd start on fumes at a shaky sixty.
This "Circuit" was why Noir Corporation had sunk its teeth into Earth in the first place.
The only ones who wore the Circuits were Earth-born humans like me. The Work Foreman never put one on—so naturally, we assumed he wasn't an Earthling.
"You ready!? Good! Rally cry—ready!"
"Hey!"
"Helmets—check!"
"Good, good, good!"
"Circuits—check!"
"Good, good, good!"
"Good! Then we move!"
The Work Foreman climbed into the truck bed first, and the "combatants" piled in after him in a rush.
...Why not just summon us to the destination in the first place? What exactly is the point of trucking us in from some midpoint? They told us to arrive already wearing the combat suits, anyway.
Well. Doesn't matter.
As long as the money comes through. At the very least, this company pays properly.
Vrooom. The ancient truck pulled away, rumbling from its enormous engine.
"Keheheheh! You filthy Galaxy Federation lot! Enemies of cosmic capitalism, are we!"
The one crowing like that was a "Cadre" in a black suit.
A being who stood at the very front line of battle, stoking the mood—and backing words with force when the need arose.
Though of course, the actual fighting fell to combatants like us.
Beep.
A sound from the Circuit.
The percentage displayed in my helmet read fifty-five.
...Looks like I've well and truly adapted to this place.
On my second deployment, I'd already been sitting at eighty by this point in the proceedings.
...Not good.
The whole reason powerless, muscle-less Earthlings were mixed into combatant squads at all was because of these Circuits.
I looked at the watch. The needle at its center was crawling around, very slowly, counterclockwise.
I tapped the watchface twice, and the Circuit's spin picked up a little speed.
Fifty-seven percent.
Good.
Apparently I didn't want to get fired after all—it had crept up a little more.
"Whew."
I let out a breath.
"People cannot live on money alone!"
the magical girl facing down the Cadre cried.
"Once people like you begin driving independent shop owners out of business, the world will surely fall into the hands of the corporations."
"Kehehe, what does that matter? Then everyone simply becomes a corporate employee—problem solved, no? Hmm? We look after our people far better than any corner-store owner ever would!"
"That is only because nobody yet knows what you are doing behind the curtain."
"My, my, my. A mere band of illegal vigilantes, seeking to punish an honest businessman."
Dressed like a man from the very top floors of the company, he swept the tall silk hat off his head and cradled it in one hand as he spoke.
"Then... I suppose we shall simply have to back our words with force. Legally speaking, of course, my dear girl!"
"That is exactly what I hoped to hear! I am Happy Cherry Blossom, and in the name of justice, I will defeat you!"
What corporations do, for the most part, is buy up land and torment the people who work on it.
The government usually looks the other way. In truth, this is all being orchestrated behind the scenes "for a certain purpose."
And that plan profits the government as well.
The Cadre had sneered about legality at Blossom, but this whole affair sat on its own razor's edge of legal, too. And the government closes its eyes, you see.
If a corporation rampaged too wildly, wouldn't the public's fury swing back onto the state that licensed it?
So they pretend, ever so slyly, to ease up on the side of justice—all while taking the temperature.
Is it better to keep buying corporate technology?
Or better to cast one's lot with the Galaxy Federation?
This "show" was also a yardstick for measuring exactly that.
"Go!"
the Work Foreman shouted, and the truck's rear doors swung open.
We poured out in a clump.
We'd drilled in our own fashion, and no one could call us terribly weak—
"Aha."
"...!"
At the sound just ahead of where we'd disembarked, every head snapped up at the same instant.
Beep-beep-beep-BEEP!
Seventy percent.
The Circuit was spinning hard enough now that I could feel it buzzing in my wrist without even looking.
Oh, shit. We picked the wrong fight.
"Running the same pincer maneuver three times in a row—doesn't that grow a bit stale?"
Thud. Thud.
Walking slowly out of the darkness beyond the streetlamps was a girl wearing a purple off-shoulder dress in weather like this—wearing it, of all things, without a shred of concern.
A girl who looked about my age.
A very pale lilac ponytail glittered under the streetlight, and by whatever principle, her skin caught the light and glowed in turn. Like a camera lens fitted with a mist filter.
Click.
What she held in her hands was a long rifle. Going by looks alone, an antiquated bolt-action that belonged in a Second World War museum—but what it fired wasn't gunpowder. It was mana, generated by a "Circuit."
A circuit that ran in precisely the opposite direction from ours.
And it didn't load bullets. It loaded single-use fuses—each one there to keep the rifle from overloading and blowing itself apart when it fired.
"None of you will be reaching Blossom. This 'Iris' will send each and every one of you somewhere comfortable."
Beep-beep-beep-BEEEP—!
Eighty-five percent.
But against that "Happy Iris," we didn't stand a chance.
She was not a being that spared a thought for anyone's circumstances.
"Damn it, everyone scatter—"
Before the Squad Leader could even finish.
Fwish.
The sound of a suppressed rifle shot, the kind you hear now and then in movies.
But.
KWAAAH—!
A shiver ran through me.
Where the middle-aged man had been standing just moments before, nothing remained but an elongated scar of fire.
For one instant the flash seared my eyes so bright that the dim surroundings vanished altogether.
I wheeled around and ran.
WHAM!
Even if I took a hit, I probably wouldn't die.
Magical girls are not murderers.
But something would break. Probably several somethings. And I'd be found sprawled somewhere far, far away.
That was simply the kind of "magic" Iris wielded.
"Oh my."
Iris laughed.
"You won't get away that easily★"
A soft fufu of laughter—and then tak-tak, the sound of someone springing off the ground.
But no landing followed.
Above—she was above me—!
"Aa—"
WHAM!
The Earth-boo was gone, the scream cut off before it could even finish.
"Eek!"
Ninety-five percent.
The Circuit was spinning like a thing possessed.
Running any farther like this would be pointless.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
At least the view through the helmet was clearer than it had been a moment ago.
Half the combatants were already gone. The ground around me was pocked with craters.
"Oh my, now?"
Iris's eyes narrowed.
"Ah—yes, I remember now. That scratch on your helmet. You—an Earthling, aren't you?"
Iris spoke.
With her feet planted on empty air.
"One who carries a Circuit."
I swung my arm.
A black blade sprang out from the Circuit on my left wrist.
...Granted, a weapon that looked hopelessly outclassed by the Circuit-armament Iris carried.
"Very well. Shall I take you alive, then? I'll mind my output, so you won't go flying too far."
Iris leveled her rifle at me as she spoke.
"You see, I do find your Circuits... interesting."
Oh, shit. I should've just run.
...Should've never come out here at all.
What on earth am I doing, on Christmas of all days?